His
by Everything-In-Focus-94
Summary: Set directly after The Great Game. Warning: MAJOR character death. John and Sherlock realise their feelings for each other. SLASH


His

There it was. That slight incline of the head, the recognition of what Sherlock was about to do, the acceptance of what was needed to be done and the consequences that would surely follow. Grey eyes met his as the great detective turned to meet his nemesis.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock uttered, gun raising and his body spinning in one fluid motion. John stared at the back of his friends head, not needing to see the looks flying between the two enemies to sense the tension in the air. The gun lowered from its original target, resting on the bomb between them.

Three sets of eyes flew simultaneously to it. A slight twitch of Sherlock's finger resting it against the trigger. A muscle twitched in Moriarty's jaw, as his condescending smile appeared on the others face.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the gun setting his feet apart, the only sense of his nervousness the slight turn to face John, seeking his approval. John nodded slowly once, his eyes transfixed on a single red dot resting between the detective's eyes. Sherlock nodded back. His finger pulled the trigger, his eyes never leaving John's, refusing to look at Moriarty.

The last thing Sherlock Holmes consciously remembered seeing was fire, not from the explosion but reflected in the blue glistening eyes of John Watson flying towards him.

The last thing he felt was the heat, not from the explosion but from _his_ John's arms around him.

The last thing her heard was the roar, not from the explosion, but of John screaming his name.

It was safe to say that the last conscious thought of Sherlock Holmes at that moment, the great sociopath, the man who openly admitted that he was married to his work, was of John Watson.

When John Watson's eye opened, the world was swimming around him. He gulped his lungs filling with water. Water. He was _in_ the pool.

Survival instincts kicked in and he pushed himself towards the light. His body broke water and he gasped for air. His lungs burned and protested with the mere process of breathing, but they finally inflated. John Watson was alive.

John coughed, blood spewing around him. With all the effort it would take a deaf man to hear, he gripped at slippery wet tiles, ignoring the pain as the cracked edges bit into his skin, digging pointed edges deep into his fingers. And then suddenly, ground. Solid ground. Gasping for air, John dragged most of his body from the pool, the only part remaining the very bottoms of his legs that hung limply into the water. His eyes closed.

His mind was a swirl of thoughts. It seemed he was caught in one of his nightmares. The bomb, the eyes of Moriarty burning into him, the pure hatred and loathing that seeped from every pore. The dark shadowed man in the corner of his eye line. Grey eyes reaching out, such a contrast from the cold eyes of the other man. His eyes flew open.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, his voice coming out cracked and faint. He tried once more putting every ounce of his power into it.

What he expected was a smooth voice to ring out from the crackling building, echo around every square foot of it and for Sherlock to appear unarmed, to smile at him, with that expression he had never seen on any other and make his feel like an utter fool for being so concerned about his flatmate. The reality was far quieter and a thousand times more terrifying. Instead of what John expected, there was nothing.

The crackling building remained the same but the only thing that echoed around it was the silence. Such a silence that John could not help but be filled with dread. At that moment John would have been satisfied with a cough, a moan of pain, even a scream for help but even that little comfort refused to be given. There was not one single sign of life was to be heard.

The events seemed to come flooding back in one sudden blast. As John had thrown himself at Sherlock, the detective had spun around, his coat fanning around the both of them, Sherlock shielding John from the blast, his face contorting in pain as he took the full force of the blast. Them both falling backwards into the-

John sat up sharply. The pool now resembled something from a horror movie. The slight spattering of blood that John had had to swim through had spread through the whole pool. Meaning one thing, that a fresh source was supplying it.

"SHERLOCK!" he screamed once more, jumping to his feet. He peered into the pool, locating a dark shadow in the corner of the pool. The darkest part of the red water seemed to be flowing freely from there. John paled, the sickness in his stomach spreading to his heart. Without another thought he jumped back into the pool.

The blood was overwhelming. It infiltrated every single one of his senses, tingeing his sight red, assaulting his taste and smell with its overpowering presence. But his only thought was of Sherlock, the dark lump in the corner that he had now positively identified as his flatmate. He reached out a hand, his breath leaving him in panicked gasps and grabbed at him desperately.

He simply grasped water, leaving him floundering. He broke surface, barely stopping to gasp for air before diving for the man again. This time his fingers touched cloth, that bloody coat. John pulled with all his diminished strength, pulling himself and the younger man upwards. Light was closing in. Air again. Both their heads broke surface. John coughing and spluttering, one arm under the other's chin keeping his head above water.

For the first time since John had met him, Sherlock was truly silent. Not a single rattled breath came from his chest. The silence radiating from him surrounded John completely.

John pulled themselves both from the pool. Not even stopping to catch his breath, he leant over Sherlock's motionless body. He ran his fingers over the others face, small lines of fresh blood mixing with the water plastered on his face. Sherlock was paler that John had ever seen him, the only colour anywhere near his face the blood that John had smeared on him.

He gave the detective a gentle shake. No response. He shook slightly harder. His head flopped and rested limply to one side, water spilling from the detectives open mouth.

"Come on Sherlock, this isn't funny" he whispered tears welling in his eyes. He pulled the man's head back, his ear above his mouth trying desperately to hear even a shudder of breath. Still nothing.

"COME ON!" he screamed, his heart jumping at his own sudden volume. Kneeling beside him he began banging on the detectives chest, his fingers linked and his palms hammering on his friends heart. Blood spewed from his protesting hands and John winced.

"Sherlock loved that shirt" John whispered. Then he realised what he had said. Loved. _LOVED. _He was referring to Sherlock in the past tense. Horrified at his wording he shook his head violently, tears flying in all directions.

"LOVES! HE _LOVES _THAT SHIRT" he screamed, his heart hammering in time with the compressions. Leaning down and pinching Sherlock's nose he breathed 2 small puffs of air into the man's mouth. His chest rose and fell, but remained still when John leant away.

He placed two fingers on the man's neck. Still nothing. He linked his fingers once more beginning the compressions. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, 11,12,13,14,15. 1 more puff of air. 15 more compressions. 1more puffs of air. 13 more compressions.

"COME ON! SHERLOCK DON'T YOU DARE DIE!" John screamed whilst doing the last two compressions. His lips clamped over Sherlock's once more and he breathed another breath into him.

And suddenly there was light. Hope.

Sherlock's body convulsed beneath him and he took a single shuddering breath, coughing under John's mouth. Water flew upwards from his lungs and John spun him onto his side allowing the detective to vomit loudly into the offending pool beside them.

His body convulsed over and over, vomit kept coming up until with a final groan Sherlock leant backwards eye closed, his chest rising and falling in ragged breathes.

John clutched at his heart lying backwards beside him. He laid his free hand on Sherlock's chest. A cold, shaking hand came up to meet his. The hand laid over his.

"John?" a quiet, hoarse voice came. John turned, his eyes meeting Sherlock's. They were red from the chlorine, a pool of silver surrounded by red. The silver however seemed to glow as if illuminated from within. Silent words were forming on Sherlock's lips, his chest shaking with the effort.

Sherlock turned his head his eyes closing with tiredness. John leant over him once more, his hands under the detectives chin forcing him upwards. Sherlock's head hung limply.

"Come on Sherlock... look at me." He whispered, his eyes resting on the blood dripping down the man's forehead. Another gentle shake. His eyes remained closed; his breath still rattling even thought he'd now vomited most of the water.

"Sherlock? Sherlock... you-you can't die here, you can't leave me. Remember what the gypsy woman said? Adventures together for the rest of our lives." He said, tears now flowing freely down his face.

He repositioned them so that Sherlock's head was resting on his lap. He gently stroked away a piece of blood soaked hair out of the detective's eyes. Tears dripped onto Sherlock's face, washing away the blood trails on it. The eyes opened, the glow fading from them.

"Tru- trust you- to believ- something like- that." Sherlock chuckled, his voice faint and the words coming out in gasps. He started his face screwing up with pain. A coughing spasm began, blood glistening at Sherlock's lips.

"Why shouldn't I believe it? I want to believe it" John whispered, his hand on the detectives chest. He was going cold, the CPR in vain as the internal damage took hold on Sherlock's body. His only hope was an ambulance arriving in time, John had to admit that those chances were indeed rather slim. Sherlock was dying. A slow painful death as each organ succumbed to damage. Sherlock and John both knew this. Sherlock chuckled again.

"Every-one wants- to believe John. Some- people –just don't have the- FAITH" he winced as another tremor rocked through his body, the final word pronounced. He gasped his vision blurring. The only thing in focus was John's devastated face.

"Me- I have now- faith, John" he whispered, his body shaking.

"You- gave- me something to- believe in John. You." he finished, blood dribbling from his mouth. He coughed, blood spraying from his lips. John shook his head and sobbed.

"No... please, Sherlock don't, you can't." he sobbed. Sherlock smiled and gulped. Another deep breath, the breaths were becoming harder to take, his lungs were failing.

"John" he began, his voice failing once more. John nodded.

"I'm here Sherlock" he replied holding him tighter. His lips rested beneath Sherlock's ears. Another embrace.

"You always were John" Sherlock muttered his voice soft. "Always- looking out for me. Weren't you? Saved my life a fair few times"

He looked over at the wreckage when the bomb had exploded and the charred remains of his coat. He smirked in the way the Sherlock only could on his death bed.

"Looks like I returned the favour" he strained, his eyes closing with pain. John gently lowered him back until he was resting on his knees.

"You did save my life Sherlock. You're my hero" John whispered. Sherlock snorted, the sound a complete contrast to his contorted face.

"What- did I tell- you? No- such- thing as heroes. And if there was... It wouldn't be me, who would be the hero" he opened his eyes at these words and locked eyes. John shook his head.

"That's where you wrong... you always were so ignorant. Especially in seeing the good in yourself, I swear Sherlock, its in there" he muttered. Sherlock's lips turned upwards into a faint smile.

"It- was always- going to be you wasn't it. John Watson. The- person I would -die for." He smiled shaking his head, in the way someone would about their own stupidity. Perhaps he was.

"Please Sherlock you can't give up" John said. Sherlock laughed softly again.

"It's not- giving up. When- would_ I_ give- up? It's just- accepting- facts" he groaned, his eyes slamming shut.

"Since when would you ever accept facts?" John muttered a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice. The pain disappeared for a second as the two chuckled together.

"Good point John" he winced, the pain returning in waves. John could feel the coldness of his hands on his; see his breath failing, his eyes light going out. It wouldn't be long.

"So -give me the facts. You're- the- doctor. My chances, not good?" he shook his head his eyes closed. John breathed out slowly, no point lying to him.

"Bit not good" he breathed. Sherlock nodded his eyes remaining closed.

"Thought as much" he replied, no hint of fear on his face.

"You're not scared?" John asked. A single grey eye opened. His hands were shaking in Johns.

"Why would I be scared? You're never- scared, not-even of- death" he groaned his body convulsing again.

"Everyone's scared Sherlock. Of something. Someone" he whispered. The second eye opened. His head tilted slightly and he faced John more openly.

"My –only- fear has been avoided. You... losing- you" he choked. John's eyebrows raised.

"I thought you didn't care about anything other than the work. You told me that at our first dinner together" he said slight confusion apparent on his face. For that first time Sherlock looked genuinely sad.

"Oh John, you really think I didn't care." he whispered .He reached out a quivering hand and placed it on John's face. John's eyes closed and he nestled into the detectives touch. Tears continued to flow down his face.

"You- taught me John, you- taught me- to care- something I never- thought I would understand. I- I feel in love- I felt love-for the first- time. You- made- me –feel-love" he gasped, fighting back spasms. John stared at him, shaking his head slowly.

"I knew Sherlock. I felt it the first time we locked eyes. You were so amazing, so beautiful... and- and I NEVER told you. We could have been together forever." John sobbed. Sherlock gently rubbed his cheek.

"Nothing lasts forever-John, but I would- rather spend- my final moments in your arms- than a lifetime in another's" he whispered, his eyes glistening. Sherlock's arms snaked around John's back and the two cradled each other tenderly. He coughed another lung rattling cough, more blood spewing onto his lips.

"Sociopath my arse" John whispered sarcastically. Sherlock tried to laugh but only a wheeze came out. John laid a finger on his lips.

"Sherlock don't talk. It will bide you time until the ambu-" Sherlock silenced him with one look.

"Yo- nev-known- me to stop talking" he managed the choke out, the breathing becoming an effort.

The light in his eyes faded another level. John surveyed his Sherlock's face taking in the picture for yet another time. This would be the last time he would see him alive, the last time that voice would come out of those lips, the last time those eyes would glisten as he spoke to him. His eyes rested on his lips.

Slowly leaning down he placed a light kiss on the detective's lips. They were cold and blood spattered but I needn't matter, he could feel Sherlock's muscles moving to meet his movements, and that's what truly mattered. The acceptance of the kiss, the acceptance of John's loves and giving his in return. John's arms tightened pulling Sherlock towards him.

He could feel tears falling from Sherlock's closed eyes falling onto his cheeks mixing with the own tears he was producing. He held him close, the kiss breaking but remaining in each other's arms.

"Sherlock... I lo-" "John- that never needed saying." Sherlock interrupted his voice faint even though his mouth was below Johns ears. Nothing more was said and when John laid Sherlock back down he wasn't shocked to find the detectives body limp and unresponsive, ice cold, heart stopped and mind finally silenced. Lestrade and the ambulance arrived 2 minutes and 12 seconds later.

As Sherlock's body was zipped into its bag, John oversaw it. He could still feel Sherlock's lips on his, hear his voice in his mind. The final time John saw Sherlock Holmes, was when his friend, the man he loved face was covered by a single black zip. But John felt at peace. Sherlock's presence would always be with him and he would never forget him. And the main reason for this feeling of peace?

The face that Sherlock died with a smile on his face. The smile that a ghost of still remained on his body. He died, knowing and feeling love for the first time. He died in the arms of the man he loved and who loved him back. He died in the arms of his John Watson.


End file.
